Losing Touch

I hate him for doing this to me but I think I hate myself more. It's a screwed up kind of hate; the type that can only be born of a love so powerful and all consuming that it leaves me with no choice other than to respond to his unspoken requests. It leaves me weak, broken and bitter, yet I continue. I would do anything for him and he knows it. This is why I love him and hate him at the same time.

I watch him walk around the house in a state of semi-awareness, blinking blindly when there's a knock at the door as if he had forgotten that other people existed. He would become so suffocated with his own memories that he would lose himself in the never-ending movie reel of his mind, stuck on repeat. I look on from the shadows and concoct new plans to make him feel again. I turn the music up loud and try and coax him into dancing with me, feeling my heart sink into my boots as he looks at me with unseeing eyes, his quiet acquiescence with my demands leaving me frustrated that he never lets go, never pulls himself up out of his own grave.

And eventually I crack. My anger rises, with each passing day he becomes more of a mannequin than a living breathing man. I stomp from one side of the living room to the other, gesturing wildly with my hands as my voice rises and I start on a rant about how we can't continue like this, how I can't continue like this. I glance over at him and find him just sitting on the sofa, perched on the edge of his seat with his hands tucked between his knees, his face towards the floor. I start screaming at him - to look at me, to just pay some attention, to show some goddamn sign that a hint of his old self still resides inside the empty broken body in front of me.

He continues to sit, unblinking, unmoving, showing no evidence that he is even aware that I am in the same room. I walk over to him in two raging strides and roughly reach out to tilt his chin up. I stare into his eyes and (every single fucking time) I recoil from the blank stare that greets me. No matter how many times it happens I can never get used to it, can never accept that this thing, this...boy, was once the most alive person I knew.

I slap him. Once. Twice. Three times. His head snaps to the side and springs back like a coil. A red bloom rises in his cheek. My hand is stinging but he just sits there, doesn't even raise his fingers to his face.

That's when I feel the full force of my anger rushing through me like a hurricane of waves during the peak of a storm. I'm blinded by a rage so intense that nothing else in the world matters more than the objective of getting a reaction out of Harry. I use any means possible; nothing is taboo. I reach out and grab him by his arms, hoisting him to his feet until we are standing eye to eye. I look for a challenge in his gaze, any indication that screams "I dare you" in that way I grew so accustomed to during our fights at Hogwarts. But it isn't there and it is because of this that I do dare.

I pull back my fist and let it slam into his face. He staggers back, his eyes locked on mine; old and grey. I let rip, pouring out my frustration, rage, powerlessness, guilt, and yes, goddamned love. I knock him around the room, throwing punches and kicks. I wrestle him to the ground and pretend that he fights back. I bite into his neck and imagine that I feel his natural reflexes kicking in.

Then I feel it: the only sign that he is alive. That hard length between his legs is the only part of him that reacts, the only part that notices my attentions, and I think, "This is just so fucked up", but I go with it anyway. I go with it because it's the only thing I have left. I rip his clothes off and scratch gouges down the length of his body, my harsh hands seeking signs of independent response from flesh that simply moulds to my purpose, my desire.

I pause only to undress myself and then I take him there on the carpet, thrusting into him as hard as I can, trying to inject some form of life into his un-reactive body. I sweat, pant and tremble with the exertion, riding him like I am trying to escape, as if perhaps if I can go fast enough, hard enough, long enough, then I can break through this silent barrier of his.

He climaxes just before me, a barely noticeable shudder that I sense more than I feel. His lips part into a tiny 'o' and for that split second as he empties himself into my fist, his eyes grow dark before a bright flicker of emotion flares up in their depths and vanishes again like a sparkler that has just been dumped in a bucket full of water.

I groan and shout out his name as I come, pleasure and pain cutting through me like a knife. I scream from the force of it, the power that one brief flash of life gave me, the complete unfairness of the situation, the crushing let down as I realise he isn't coming back. He is never coming back. All I have left is this, here, now - a cold wet hand, a cold wet face and a cold wet heart.

I help him to his feet, find his clothes and help him dress. I then tend to the wounds I inflicted only moments before, licking the tears of blood from his cheekbones. Sometimes I wonder if it isn't me who has vanquished all sense of reality, leaving the horror of this world far behind and retreating to a place of my own creation; a new horror. Perhaps Harry isn't the only one lost after all.